by R. J. Koreto
“I see, my lady. But I’m not one to gossip.”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t have risen to a high position as housekeeper of such a fine place as Blake Court if you lacked discretion. It’s only old family . . . history I’m after. Not vulgar gossip about what is happening today.”
“Well, if you put it like that, my lady. More than one person was surprised at the way things fell out, I don’t mind saying. Even as young men, their way in the world was marked. Calleford Kestrel would become a great man in London, we all thought, with an important position, dinners at the palace. And Captain Jim Blake would hunt, breed his horses and dogs, do his turn as a deputy lieutenant for the county and give away the prizes at the local school. That would’ve suited Miss Bronwen just fine, and Miss Phoebe would’ve made a gracious London hostess. But that’s not the way it happened.” She sighed.
“Calleford Kestrel proposed to Miss Bronwen, not Miss Phoebe?” prompted Frances.
“It would seem so. But looking back on it, it may not be so strange. For all he was a great man, Sir Calleford could be a little . . . nervy . . . I may say. There are those who say that Miss Gwen was all her mother’s daughter, but she was her father’s, too, and Sir Calleford was not disposed for a lively London life. But if you could’ve known Miss Bronwen, my lady. The gentlest creature the good Lord ever created. Her quiet ways soothed him when he fretted. It was a great love.”
Frances asked if Miss Phoebe, who became Mrs. Blake, had as strong a romance with Captain Jim.
“Ah, my lady, now that was a little different.” She lowered her voice. “Captain Jim had to woo her rather hard, so we all thought. Oh, I think she liked him well enough, my lady, but he was a bit of a lively lad, and she wanted to make sure he’d settle down—and sure enough, he was a good master and became much admired for the way he ran the estate. It turned out to be a fair match. Captain Jim needed a strong wife.” She laughed. “Someone to tell him no, he couldn’t give his favorite dogs the run of the house, and yes, as the squire he had to do the reading Sunday morning at church, never mind he was out late on Saturday.”
Frances smiled. “There is more than one Captain Jim in my family, with the same arguments. But it sounds then like Mrs. Blake ran a strict household when she was here?”
Now Frances had pushed too far. Old memories were fair game, but Mrs. Blake was still mistress of Blake Court, and there would be no criticism there. A few set words on what a fine lady she was, and that was it.
But Mrs. Pear wanted to gingerly sound out Frances. After all, the death of Sir Calleford affected her as well.
“I didn’t want to bother the family during these trying times, my lady, but seeing as you’re such a good friend of Miss Gwen’s, I was wondering if you knew what would happen? If Mrs. Blake would come home now, and what would happen with the Eyrie?”
Frances lowered her voice as well, to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t believe things will change much. I think it is Mrs. Blake’s intention to stay on at the Eyrie indefinitely and help Gwen manage the estate.”
Mrs. Pear nodded. “That’s what I thought, my lady. There’s nothing for her here. Mr. Blake, as you see, runs a somewhat informal house. He’ll marry soon, I imagine, and we’ll have children running around, God-willing.” She seemed pleased at the prospect. “No real place here for Mrs. Blake then, however.”
Mrs. Bellinger. Mrs. Sweet. Mrs. Blake. No matter what their class, single women had a hard time finding a place in society, reflected Frances—not for the first time.
Mrs. Pear broke into her thoughts. “Speaking of marriage, my lady. I know it’s not my place, but might my next mistress be an American, my lady?” It was only half a question. It probably didn’t occur to her that anyone could actually purchase the Eyrie from the Kestrel family and settle there. If Christopher Blake would marry, his wife would be mistress of Blake Court, and that’s all. Frances was also amused that Christopher might think he was keeping his romance with Effie Hardiman a secret. Servants always knew first.
“I would not be at all surprised, Mrs. Pear. But think on this. What if, as a wedding present, Mr. Hardiman bought his daughter the Eyrie, and Mr. Blake and his wife lived there?”
“Mr. Hardiman could do that, my lady? My goodness.” She thought about that, and Frances feared she might refuse to discuss it more, but she was clearly surprised. “I don’t suppose Miss Gwen wants to be a great lady. But what would she do, my lady?”
“Continue to live in London. She has many friends, Mrs. Pear. She will be well-looked-after, and I’m sure Mr. Blake would have her up to visit often.”
“And Mrs. Blake would come back here? It’s not my place to comment, my lady, but I think she’s rather used to the Eyrie. I mean, we still think of her as mistress of Blake Court, but I doubt if she’s spent a night here in ten years.”
“She must’ve thought that someday Gwen would marry,” said Frances, looking closely at Mrs. Pear. “And that her husband would not expect his wife’s distant aunt to be part of their household. Certainly not running it.”
The housekeeper sighed. “But if . . .” and then she stopped.
“You were about to say, ‘but if she married Christopher.’”
But Frances had gone too far. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lady,” said Mrs. Pear, ending the conversation.
Mallow, meanwhile, was sharing a nice cup of tea with the cook, Mrs. Bailey. Unlike the cook at the Eyrie and most cooks at great houses, Mrs. Bailey was fairly young, only in her thirties. As a bachelor in the country, perhaps Mr. Blake didn’t entertain so lavishly that he required a more senior cook.
Mrs. Bailey was pleased to have someone new to talk to, and like the servants at the Eyrie, she was entertained by Mallow’s stories of the great parties at the Seaforth house in London. Even more so, because at least at the Eyrie there had been a lot of entertaining, but not here.
“Oh, local gentry, with their unmarried daughters hoping to catch Mr. Blake’s eye—the vicar and his wife, the doctor and his wife, but that’s it. Mind you, Miss Mallow, I don’t do any of your fancy French cooking, like what you’re used to in London, but I do very nice roasts and have a good hand with game, if I say so myself.”
“I’m a London girl and prefer solid English cooking myself,” said Mallow. “Are these your scones? I haven’t had better, even when I was housemaid for the late Marchioness of Seaforth.”
Mrs. Bailey seemed tickled that a maid in a titled family liked her scones.
Lady Frances had told Mallow to find out if any of the servants knew about Mr. Blake’s courtship of Miss Hardiman. But care was needed. Servants liked to gossip, but push too hard, especially with a senior servant like a cook, and they’d suspect something.
“Rather nice of Mr. Blake to show that American lady around the grounds. She’s stuck here in the country not knowing anyone.”
Mrs. Bailey smirked. “I could tell you, Miss Mallow, it’s more than just kindness.”
Mallow’s eyes grew wide. “Really? He’s courting an American lady? Well, I never.”
Mrs. Bailey enjoyed knowing something that would entrance this London lady’s maid, who was probably privy to scandals among the great lords and ladies in the city.
“Oh yes. The way we heard it, he was friends with her father, Mr. Hardiman, something about the American interested in horses and coming up to see the Eyrie stables. But it’s the daughter Mr. Blake’s interested in.”
“Well fancy that,” said Mallow. “So perhaps you’ll get a new mistress here? What with Mrs. Blake always up at the Eyrie, it’s been awhile since you’ve had a proper mistress here.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Bailey. She looked a little crafty. Oh, thought Mallow, she knows something and wants to tell me, but can’t decide. Suddenly, Mrs. Bailey changed the subject.
“But tell me. Your Lady Frances must be ready to marry. She’s pretty, and being in an important titled family must have a very nice dowry. I daresay you’ll b
e living in a great house before too long.”
So Mrs. Bailey was going to give gossip, but she wanted some in return. Very well. Mallow would give her what she wanted—even if she had to make it up.
“There have been gentlemen callers, I can tell you. Now you must keep to yourself, Mrs. Bailey, but three times now Lady Frances has dined at the home of her brother and sister-in-law when they had Lord Lucas Brakeland, eldest son of an earl he is, and will inherit Brakeland Park. He is an equerry to the king. That means His Majesty himself will probably come to the wedding.”
And that just amazed Mrs. Bailey. In recent years, Blake Court hadn’t seen anyone more prominent than Canon Witherspoon, from Morchester Cathedral—an occasional visitor who tended to fall asleep over dessert. The cook couldn’t top that. But she could come close.
“Well, perhaps we’ll have a wedding here too, Miss Mallow, but Mrs. Blake won’t be attending. I’ll tell you, they just had a row the likes of which you’ve never heard. I was just coming up to discuss the menu, when I heard. She came back here to have a talk with Mr. Christopher. Oh, she really lost her temper she did.”
“Mrs. Blake? She seems like such a great lady,” said a wide-eyed Mallow. Great ladies didn’t lose their temper.
“Oh, you should have heard it, Miss Mallow. She accused the master of romancing Miss Hardiman, and just as angry, he denied having made an offer. She told him an American lady of no background couldn’t preside at the table of the gentry.”
Mallow was surprised at that. She knew of several wealthy American women who had married into the aristocracy in London; Mr. Blake didn’t even have a title.
“Miss Hardiman seemed very respectable to me,” said Mallow.
“Oh, but it’s more than that,” said Mrs. Bailey. Cooks were the worst gossips, Mallow knew. Stuck in the kitchens all day, they weren’t privy to the goings-on that even junior maids saw upstairs. So when they got something, they were thrilled.
Still, she was very free with her comments. That’s what happens, thought Mallow, when a house doesn’t have a mistress to properly watch over the servants.
“Mrs. Blake wants him to marry his cousin, Miss Gwen, then they’d live at the Eyrie. She said that the late Sir Calleford had wanted to share a grandchild with her, that they were Marchands too—that’s what the family was in olden times—and you couldn’t always do what you wanted when you were a noble. You had responsibilities. And then Mr. Blake said the oddest thing.” Mrs. Bailey frowned. “He said he would never force Gwen to have a child. He’s usually a temperate man but then things really heated up, I can tell you. Mrs. Blake said Mr. Blake owed his uncle a lot, but he’d be damned—yes, he used that word, Miss Mallow—he’d be damned if his gratitude to his uncle meant being tied to Gwen for the rest of his life. And then his mother said, and I remember these words: ‘I gave him everything. And you will too.’”
“Everything?” asked Mallow.
“I guess, giving up her home and keeping house for Sir Calleford.” She shrugged and they sipped their tea, lost in thought. Miss Gwen was a pretty girl and possessed a huge estate. Why not get married? No accounting for the behavior of the gentry.
“Ah well, he’s the master and can make his own decisions,” concluded Mrs. Bailey. “It’s all right for some, but for me, I have to see about luncheon.”
The walk put color in everyone’s cheeks, and they enjoyed it, despite the cold. A fire was waiting for them in drawing room and hot tea was served. Gwen was chatting away, and her black dress was the only sign that she was in mourning. Tommie had noticed too and seemed so pleased with Gwen’s mood.
Miss Hardiman, meanwhile, was hanging on every word Christopher Blake was saying. Frances recalled what her own mother had said at the start of her first season: “Men like to talk about themselves and what they find particularly interesting. You would do well to appear fascinated.” At this point, Mr. Blake was talking about dairy cattle, and Miss Hardiman was indeed looking fascinated.
But Miss Hardiman had grown up on a farm. Her interest in cows may have been genuine. Frances upbraided herself for not realizing that her interests were not everyone’s. Indeed, a really good Stilton cheese was the extent of her dairy interests.
After lunch, Mr. Blake apologized for having to leave the ladies to attend to business and promised to be back for dinner. The ladies, meanwhile, played backgammon and cards and took turns reading to each other.
“My father was very much looking forward to his hunting with the general,” said Miss Hardiman. “In fact, he went into the village yesterday, and bought some scotch whiskey for the general and some chocolates for us this evening. I remember from an earlier chat—you liked the crèmes, Miss Kestrel; and you liked nuts, Miss Calvin; and white chocolates were your favorite, Lady Frances.”
Frances suppressed a shudder. She loved chocolate, and it was very sweet of Miss Hardiman to remember everyone’s favorites. But the memory of the dead Mrs. Sweet, with her chocolates spilled over her, was still fresh. It was funny how she indulged herself—well, everyone had their fancies. And yet she was careful in other ways, carefully cultivating dried herbs. But herbs weren’t going to prevent her from becoming quite stout if she kept eating chocolate like that—Dolly mentioned the dressmaker having to let out her clothes. Still, something about those herbs tickled Frances’s memory, but why? Frances had never had much interest in gardening—yet another exasperation for her mother. Who had ever heard of a well-born Englishwoman not making at least a show of pottering about a garden?
It would come later, no doubt.
Christopher returned just as dinner was served. Miss Hardiman’s eyes glittered when she saw him, and he greeted her warmly. He was gallant to all the ladies, in fact, and Frances was pleased to see him particularly solicitous for Gwen.
As everyone enjoyed the plain roast and potatoes with good country mustard and cheese made on the Blake estate, Christopher held court among his guests. He was a natural-born storyteller, and had amusing anecdotes about the old county families, from pompous squires to the workmen who had managed the estate for generations. This wasn’t tedious provincial gossip, but genuinely funny stories. Gwen seemed to delight in them, and among her giggles, Frances reflected on the nature of jealousy. Someone might be unhappy to see someone else amuse their beloved, but not Tommie, who was just pleased that Gwen was cheerful.
When it was time to go, Christopher saw them into the motorcar, and said he hoped to see all of them again soon, looking meaningfully at Miss Hardiman. Once they were driving, she took out the chocolates to share, and everyone reflected on what a nice visit it was. But Frances had to force her merriment. She still couldn’t get chocolates and Mrs. Sweet out of her mind. And the horrible, illiterate note left for Tommie, the second threat made to her.
The ladies all said they were tired and would head to bed, but Frances said she wanted a word with Tommie and went with her to her room—she motioned for Mallow to join her.
Once the door was closed behind them, Frances turned sharply to her friend. “Tommie. I keep thinking of that awful note left for you. Someone wasn’t just threatening you, but accusing you of being a killer. And we’ve been gone all day. If someone wanted to make you look like a murderer, today would be the day to do it. You’re in danger, but I don’t know how.”
“What? From whom? Whoever has been threatening me?” Her eyes grew big, and she licked her dry lips in fear.
“From those who want to separate you from Gwen. Now, we see one stabbing murder. One shooting murder. And one poison murder—Mrs. Tanner, I’m sure.”
“Am I next?” whispered Tommie.
“Not directly. I think someone wants to ruin you. I keep going back to that line in the note—someone says they know you’re a killer. And look, no one wanted to call in Scotland Yard to help that incompetent inspector. He’s made no arrests, but he’s going to have to. Arresting you, Tommie, would solve two problems—ending your friendship with Gwen and solving Sir Calleford’s mu
rder. No one cares about an ancient servant or a poor widow, whose death can be laid to a chance robber. But Sir Calleford was wealthy and important. Someone has to be arrested, and you’ve been accused twice already—one in the cathedral and once here. Someone has to be convicted.” She smiled. “But not you, Tommie. If someone is setting you up, we’re going to stay one step ahead of them. Come, the three of us are going to search this room, right now. It shouldn’t take long.”
It wasn’t a big room and Tommie didn’t have a lot of baggage. Tommie and Frances went through her things and Mallow began searching drawers and little corners, as only a good servant knew how.
It was Frances who found what was out of place, a dress stained on the sleeves.
“Mallow, what does this look like to you?”
Mallow looked it over under the light. “That’s blood, my lady.”
“But that’s my traveling dress, what I wore here and haven’t worn again since. I didn’t get any blood on it.”
“It’s the perfect way to make it look like you killed him. Someone poured blood on it. This is farm country—there is always blood around for anyone who wants it. The inspector will find this dress thanks to a tip and figure you killed Sir Calleford because he wanted you away from his daughter.”
“Oh, dear God.” She put her face in her hands.
“Don’t worry. Mallow, can you get another stain out today?”
Mallow was affronted her ladyship should even ask. “Of course, my lady. I’ll have it out in a matter of minutes. I’ll take it back to my room, wait until later when the laundry room will be empty, and have it back up to your room in the morning, miss.”
Tommie collapsed on her bed. “Why?” she asked.
“Sir Calleford was either killed because someone wanted the Eyrie, because of Gwen, or because of something having to do with the diplomatic meetings here. Someone calculated this very neatly, killing him when there were so many motives. But only one of them could have led to all three murders.”
